Disclaimer/Author's Notes: Hi again, fellow X-Files-non-owners. I apologise for my liberal big-word-using, I just grew up reading those words! And the reason there are so many chapters is I originally wrote it longhand and I'm just typing it up now... Don't read too much into the whole DCM thing, he's just symbolic.
The former federal agent was barely visible beneath the crisp hospital bed sheets. All a visitor would have observed was the faint outline of her head, and a tuft of hair spread on the pillow, nothing more.
She was dreaming again, this time not of her abduction and Mulder's subsequent murder, but again of the denim-clad stranger. For some reason, they were sitting around a dinner table in low-backed rotund armchairs and downing large quantities of what certainly tasted like wine, but was inexplicably a rather dour shade of green.
"My dear," said the denim clad man, and she looked up sharply, but despite the obvious fact he was talking to her, he had not bothered to look at her, "your life seems to have taken an unexpected twist." His eyes finally met hers, and she realized that one was green, but the other gray.
She answered guardedly, "Maybe so," not averting her gaze although the effort required to keep steady eye contact was so intense it was almost painful.
"Because, of course, Mr. Mulder's death is imminent."
"It is?" she asked with thinly veiled shock. She supposed she had known that, since the first time she had the lucid dream, but it had taken an utterance from the strange man to really impress the effect. Her fists tightened on the pristine tablecloth, gathering clutches of fabric to her palms. Her guest inclined his head slightly, and she crumpled back into her seat. "But... why?"
He shrugged, expression nonchalant. "He's supposed to. You could probably save him, I guess, but he'd still just die some other way. Could be ten years from now. Or maybe, you've already changed the future by being with child, so instead he'll die in his sleep in ten minutes." Eyebrows raised in mischief, he pulled up one denim sleeve to hold his wristwatch before his nose. The strap of the watch was denim. "Nine minutes."
Unsure how to react to her surreal dream, Scully decided to make the most of it, to try and trawl up answers from her sleeping brain. "Who are you?"
"I am the Alpha and I am the Omega."
"You're God?"
The eyebrows climbed their way up his face again. "No, but I might as well be. I am the angel of death, but a patron of life. I am the bringer of terrors that have been manufactured from joys. I am the Yami, I guess." He smiled a face-cracking smile and spread his arms wide. "I am God of those who have none. I am..."
"A murderer!" Scully spat, pushing back her chair and standing poker straight before him. "You would take a man that has done no wrong, on a whim!? Why? Why not me, or someone else?"
This angel of death in denim sat and stared for so long she began to wonder if, incredibly, he had not heard her. Finally, he stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, his unnaturally strong grip grinding at her bone.
"Because I am Death, and I am beautiful, and Mulder loves me little less than he does you."
She woke marveling at her own imagination, and feeling somewhat thirsty.
Although the more intuitive part of her psyche was restless, the logical Dana felt just dandy. She'd had enough of these dreams, and that one, although odd, wasn't particularly upsetting or threatening. Obviously, the dreams had simply been a product of the new hormones her body had been producing. In fact, she felt better already.
She paused to let her brain settle down, and found the one thought that obstinately remained was her thirst, now earnestly backed up by a vague itch in her throat.
"OK," she thought aloud. "OK, I'm thirsty." Hugging her knees pensively, she tried to recall where she had seen the water cooler. Had she been less bored or more bedridden, she no doubt would have called the nurse. But it was late at night, and besides, she felt perfectly capable to get herself a plastic beaker of chilled water.
She slipped out of bed and winced at the icy touch of frozen linoleum on her bed-warmed feet. Allowing her body to adjust to the shock of the altered temperature, she stood motionless for a few seconds, then set off down the corridor.
When she had turned the corner and the cooler was in sight, the fact that her subconscious was still yammering at her should have concerned her. Unfortunately for everyone involved, it didn't.
Dana took one step, winced at the icy caress of the ground on her skin, and emitted a muffled scream when her face was covered with a tatty cloth. Instead of holding her breath and doing something useful, like struggling free, she took a huge, panicked gulp of tainted air. Unceremoniously, Scully passed out for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
Author's Notes: Yay, a cliffhanger! Unfortunately, I have no way of telling when I'll get the next few chapters up, but just sit tight!
The former federal agent was barely visible beneath the crisp hospital bed sheets. All a visitor would have observed was the faint outline of her head, and a tuft of hair spread on the pillow, nothing more.
She was dreaming again, this time not of her abduction and Mulder's subsequent murder, but again of the denim-clad stranger. For some reason, they were sitting around a dinner table in low-backed rotund armchairs and downing large quantities of what certainly tasted like wine, but was inexplicably a rather dour shade of green.
"My dear," said the denim clad man, and she looked up sharply, but despite the obvious fact he was talking to her, he had not bothered to look at her, "your life seems to have taken an unexpected twist." His eyes finally met hers, and she realized that one was green, but the other gray.
She answered guardedly, "Maybe so," not averting her gaze although the effort required to keep steady eye contact was so intense it was almost painful.
"Because, of course, Mr. Mulder's death is imminent."
"It is?" she asked with thinly veiled shock. She supposed she had known that, since the first time she had the lucid dream, but it had taken an utterance from the strange man to really impress the effect. Her fists tightened on the pristine tablecloth, gathering clutches of fabric to her palms. Her guest inclined his head slightly, and she crumpled back into her seat. "But... why?"
He shrugged, expression nonchalant. "He's supposed to. You could probably save him, I guess, but he'd still just die some other way. Could be ten years from now. Or maybe, you've already changed the future by being with child, so instead he'll die in his sleep in ten minutes." Eyebrows raised in mischief, he pulled up one denim sleeve to hold his wristwatch before his nose. The strap of the watch was denim. "Nine minutes."
Unsure how to react to her surreal dream, Scully decided to make the most of it, to try and trawl up answers from her sleeping brain. "Who are you?"
"I am the Alpha and I am the Omega."
"You're God?"
The eyebrows climbed their way up his face again. "No, but I might as well be. I am the angel of death, but a patron of life. I am the bringer of terrors that have been manufactured from joys. I am the Yami, I guess." He smiled a face-cracking smile and spread his arms wide. "I am God of those who have none. I am..."
"A murderer!" Scully spat, pushing back her chair and standing poker straight before him. "You would take a man that has done no wrong, on a whim!? Why? Why not me, or someone else?"
This angel of death in denim sat and stared for so long she began to wonder if, incredibly, he had not heard her. Finally, he stood and grabbed her by the shoulders, his unnaturally strong grip grinding at her bone.
"Because I am Death, and I am beautiful, and Mulder loves me little less than he does you."
She woke marveling at her own imagination, and feeling somewhat thirsty.
Although the more intuitive part of her psyche was restless, the logical Dana felt just dandy. She'd had enough of these dreams, and that one, although odd, wasn't particularly upsetting or threatening. Obviously, the dreams had simply been a product of the new hormones her body had been producing. In fact, she felt better already.
She paused to let her brain settle down, and found the one thought that obstinately remained was her thirst, now earnestly backed up by a vague itch in her throat.
"OK," she thought aloud. "OK, I'm thirsty." Hugging her knees pensively, she tried to recall where she had seen the water cooler. Had she been less bored or more bedridden, she no doubt would have called the nurse. But it was late at night, and besides, she felt perfectly capable to get herself a plastic beaker of chilled water.
She slipped out of bed and winced at the icy touch of frozen linoleum on her bed-warmed feet. Allowing her body to adjust to the shock of the altered temperature, she stood motionless for a few seconds, then set off down the corridor.
When she had turned the corner and the cooler was in sight, the fact that her subconscious was still yammering at her should have concerned her. Unfortunately for everyone involved, it didn't.
Dana took one step, winced at the icy caress of the ground on her skin, and emitted a muffled scream when her face was covered with a tatty cloth. Instead of holding her breath and doing something useful, like struggling free, she took a huge, panicked gulp of tainted air. Unceremoniously, Scully passed out for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
Author's Notes: Yay, a cliffhanger! Unfortunately, I have no way of telling when I'll get the next few chapters up, but just sit tight!
